Blight
by quoththeblackbird
Summary: Haymitch rubs my back as I heave my guts into his toilet. "Aw, Sweetheart," he whispers, "I wouldn't wish this on you in a million years." - Alternate take on Mockingjay. Told backwards, Memento style.
1. Chapter 1

A/N:

So what do you do when the Bruins lose their quarterfinal match up? Have a drink, eat a shit ton of French fries, and crank out some fic.

Back to the more traditional hurt/comfort sickie stuff. Because I don't want to study for finals.

**READ THIS OR YOU WILL BE CONFUSED LATER!**

**I'm writing this fic backwards, memento style (and if you haven't seen that movie, watch it, it's really interesting). This chapter, the first chapter, is the thing that happened LAST, and the chapter that is posted last is going to be the thing that happened FIRST. **

Set during Mockingjay, later chapters may go back to Catching Fire. OOC, I know.

September 4th

9:37pm

I wake soaked with sweat and in pain. My stomach is roiling and cramping, and lines of hot achiness are shooting up from the small of my back. Nausea is welling in my chest. I shove off the bed and stumble toward the bathroom. I end up at the wall, though. This room is oddly flipped compared to my family's apartment. I skid in the other direction, my bare feet sliding on the polished linoleum.

I slam my knees into the floor in front of the toilet and retch. My body wants to fight the sharp contractions of my stomach, but I force myself to relax my tense shoulders and ride the waves of sick pain. I bring my forehead to rest on the toilet seat, but I end up in contact with the edge of the bowl. I'm definitely not in my apartment. No one in my family leaves the seat up. I can't think about this for more than a moment because vertigo is starting to overtake my vision.

I press my face into the edge of the porcelain toilet bowl, trying to keep my grip on reality. My stomach is still cramping, and the pain is radiating horribly into my back and upper thighs. It reminds me of the soreness and nausea I'd had when I'd first gotten my period. But this is different, so much more intense. And I'm not supposed to be having a period.

I spit out residual strings of mucus, then ease myself off of my knees. I sit on my bottom with my faintly trembling legs stretched out in front of me. I comb my fingers through my sweaty hair, holding it off my neck. I reach to unstick my shirt from my lower back. The fabric clings to my damp skin, so I just pull it over my head and sit there in my bra. I use the wadded up shirt to wipe more sweat and puke off my face. I'm about to toss it into the corner when I notice the murky stain on the hem in the back.

The bathroom is dark, but I can plainly see the spot. It looks black on the dingy gray of my shirt. I run my fingers over the stain, and they come up dark and sticky. I hold my fingers close to my face. I can't mistake the metallic scent. Blood.

I drop my shirt and look down at myself. "Oh God," I gasp. "Oh fuck."

The crotch of my pants is saturated with blood, which is seeping down my thighs. I swear again and try to wipe my tainted fingers on my knee. The room seems to be moving in ellipses around me. Nausea is rising again.

I rest my elbows on the edges of the toilet bowl and hold my head in my hands. Within seconds, I'm gagging.

The door to the apartment bangs open, and a wedge of severe light floods the bathroom. "The fuck?" I hear Haymitch's voice. There's a thud as something heavy hits a hard surface. The door closes and the slightly softer apartment light clicks on.

Heavy footsteps come up behind me. "Sweetheart?" he asks quietly from the doorway.

I turn my head toward him, and the effort makes me feel like I might pass out. "Go away," I grunt. One of my elbows slips and I have to scrabble to regain my grip on the toilet bowl.

Haymitch is at my side with an arm around my shoulders. "Why are you here?" I choke.

"You're puking in my john," he answers. I'm in Haymitch's room. So the nearest open door I'd shoved through hours earlier had been his. A smattering of memories from the last time I was conscious comes to my mind. Arguing with Gale, snapping at my mother, feeling dizzy and tired, pushing into the nearest unlocked room and falling asleep.

I retch. Haymitch rubs my back as I heave my guts into his toilet. "Aw, Sweetheart," he whispers, "I wouldn't wish this on you in a million years."

Stars are encroaching on the corners of my vision. I turn to Haymitch. His hair is obscuring his face. "It's dead," I say. I'm not sure if I mean it to be a statement or a question. But I'm sure it's true.

"Yeah," Haymitch whispers. He grasps my shoulder. "Yeah. That's a lot of blood, Sweetheart. It's probably been gone a couple of days."

I sigh and try to nod, but I just grimace in pain. "Mmmmm," I groan as my stomach cramps. I want to curl into a fetal position and scream. I tip sideways and careen into Haymitch.

"Hey, okay," he soothes, keeping me from falling any further. I dry heave. "Alright, going back up." He puts down the toilet seat and helps me curl my contracting body around the porcelain bowl. "Hold tight for a minute," Haymitch says, "I'mna find your mom, maybe a doctor." He pats my shoulder one more time, then pushes up from the floor and dashes out of the apartment.

I squeeze my eyes shut as the door slams. I crush my forehead into the toilet seat as hard as I can. I begin to whisper under my breath, as much for comfort as to keep myself from passing out. "My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. Peeta is in the Capital. I was pregnant with his child. The baby is dead. I am having a miscarriage."

I barely get the last part out before I'm wracked with another painful cramp. I slam my forehead on the seat. "God fucking damnit!" I yell as loudly as my raw throat will allow. "Why the fucking shit…"

Massive sobs are rising in my chest. The door flies open and my mother and Haymitch run to me. I hear two more pairs of feet approaching behind them.

"Fuck!" I'm still shouting and crying, and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to stop.

"Katniss," my mother says softly, sitting on the floor beside me. Her cool hands find my cheek and the back of my neck. "Slight fever," she mutters to Haymitch, "But it could just be activity. Can we get her sitting up?"

Haymitch's arms latch around me, and he pulls me to my feet. I'm lightheaded and listing to one side as he hauls me onto the toilet, but my gaze finds two faces hovering in the bathroom doorway. Gale. And Prim.

"Get out of here!" I yell with a catch in my voice.

My mother cups my face. "Shhh, Katniss. It's okay. They can help. She can help." I lash out at her with my clenched fist.

"Prim, get out! Don't see this," my voice dissolves into moaning sobs, "Don't fucking see this." I hear their footsteps retreating. I flop my head back and cry without restraint.

Haymitch puts his arm around my trembling shoulders. My mother tosses a towel over my lap and eases off my pants and underwear.

I feel so bad. So exposed. Tainted. My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am having a miscarriage. The piece of Peeta growing inside me is dead. For so long I'd wanted to kill it. Terminate it. Get it out of my way. But now that I'd decided to accept it, maybe even feel affection for what Peeta had created inside me, it's dead. My body was too hateful to let it live.

"Oh, Katniss," my mother sighs. She's standing at the sink, examining my soiled clothes. I know she's found it. Whatever it is, dead after seven weeks of growth. Already passed from my body.

I'm horrified and relieved and sad and embarrassed all at once. I want Peeta. I want him to hold me and forgive me for what I've done to our child. But Peeta isn't here. He's in the Capital, tortured, possibly dead.

Grief washes over me, starting at my head and rushing down my chest. I want Peeta. Haymitch is closest, so I wrap my arms around his waist and cry and snivel into his belt buckle. He strokes my hair. "You'll be okay, Sweetheart," He says. "Give it some time and you'll be okay."

"How do you know?" I grumble into his shirt.

Haymitch sighs deeply. "My mother. She had four."

"Oh," I say.

"Couldn't make another baby after me. 'S why I'm so fucked up, I guess." He gives a macabre chuckle. "But she did this four times. Strongest person I knew. Was pneumonia that got her in the end. Not the kids. You'll be okay."

I'm not sure if his speech is getting more fragmented or if I'm just losing my grip. I pull away from Haymitch and vomit a thin stream of bile onto the floor. He wipes my mouth with his sleeve.

My mother is back at my side. She is saying something about getting me to bed. That sounds wonderful. I'm so achy and seasick. She ushers Haymitch out of the bathroom and sees to cleaning me up a little. She washes the blood from my legs, wipes my sweaty face, and dresses me in a clean shirt.

My mother lets Haymitch back in to hold me up while she readies the bed. I'm too weak and shaky to make it to my apartment, so I'll be staying at Haymitch's for the night.

I sip water from the glass Haymitch holds in front of me. The cool liquid feels wonderful on my raw throat, but it hits my stomach badly. The coldness just intensifies the cramps. I imagine the luxury of laying down on the soft mattress and forgetting all about today.

I don't have to wait long before Haymitch and my mother support me to bed. I lay on a pile of towels to soak up the blood that still drips from me. My mother pulls the blankets up to my chest. She smooths a hand over my forehead. "There, your much cooler now," she says.

Haymitch stands behind her, bottle of liquor hand. That must have been the heavy thump from earlier. "Where'd you get that?" I whisper.

"Ripper," he answers. "Turns out she brought a few with her when she came up here from 12." He takes a swig of the liquid.

"Give me some," I say, reaching up for the bottle.

"Katniss," my mother admonishes.

But Haymitch hands over the bottle. I take a swig of the burning liquid. It threatens to come back up, but I force it to stay in my stomach. I relinquish the bottle of liquor and breathe deeply for a moment, feeling the fuzzy burn of alcohol begin to soothe my aches.

I'm about to shut my eyes when the apartment door opens. "Katniss?" Prim's small voice asks.

"Yeah?" I answer. She pads up to the bed and crawls up beside me. "Sorry," I whisper. I remember how rude I'd been to her earlier.

"It's okay," she murmurs, taking my trembling hand between hers.

"Catnip," Gale's voice comes from my shoulder. He's standing at the edge of the bed beside my mother.

"I'm sorry," I say again. I can't come up with any more words to describe the hideous mixture of emotions I'm feeling. He strokes my cheek with his big, calloused fingers. "Don't leave," I sigh.

"I won't," Gale says. Prim tightens her grip on my hand. I hear Haymitch setting his bottle down on the bedside table. My mother gently touches my foot through the blankets.

I close my eyes and exhale. The liquor has dulled the aching of my abdomen. I feel like I can sleep. And for the first time in several hours, I feel that there may be some tiny fragments of my life that aren't affected by this blight.

A/N: BEFORE you comment and say "I'm confused, where's the backstory?" read the big bold underlined note at the beginning. Backstory comes LATER.

Anyhow, worth continuing? Reviews feed my muse…


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **

**Note to self: do not write fic in pink sharpie. It is impossible to read.**

**Oh, and I forgot to thank KarmaLord for the prompt/idea in the last chapter. You asked for Katniss to be diagnosed with cancer, but I just can't deliver on that one. You DID inspire me to write something more painful and dramatic, though, and here it is.**

****Remember, the events in this chapter take place BEFORE the events in the previous chapter!**

**Don't own Hunger Games. Enjoy.**

September 4

3:09pm

Gale catches my shoulder as we leave command. "Why are you with them now?" He jerks his head back toward the door to the room where Coin, Boggs, and Plutarch sit. "Why'd you just give up?"

"I didn't give up," I say, shrugging off Gale's hand and leaning against the wall to face him.

"You were tearing your hair out arguing with Plutarch and Coin last week, and today you go in and say 'okay' to everything they say. How's that not giving up?" His irritation is quickly becoming something more dangerous.

"It's just…" I start, rubbing my forehead and looking down at my shoes. "Maybe…well, maybe I want it to stay." I press my lips together and brace myself for the tirade that's sure to follow.

"Goddamnit Katniss!" Gale slams his hand into the wall. "But you know—but—you can't—shit!" He's too angry even to yell at me. He sighs. "Why? Just—why?"

Tears spring to my eyes. I indignantly wipe them away, embarrassed. This is my own careful choice. Why do I feel bad about sharing it with Gale, my best friend? Why am I on the verge of crying? Because I'm fucking pregnant, that's why. But I haven't even been feeling that today.

I fidget with the end of my braid and keep my eyes trained downward. "Because," I whisper, "Because I don't want to lose him."

Gale huffs loudly. "Right," he says. "Star crossed lovers." His voice is thick with sarcasm. "I thought you knew that was all over, Katniss." Gale turns away and starts down the hall, hitting the wall with his fist as he goes.

"Damnit," I sigh. I knew he wouldn't understand. But I'd still hoped that he would. I knew he'd take it badly, think that I'm choosing Peeta over him. In a way, I suppose I am, deciding to keep Peeta's child inside me despite Gale's wish that I wouldn't. I don't mean to, though. I don't know who I love, but right now it feels like both of them. I wouldn't want Gale or Peeta to completely disappear from my life.

I start wandering aimlessly down the hallway. I wish that the nausea that usually plagues me would come on. I want to hole up in the bathroom and expel my feelings with today's lunch. But I feel well. My muscles don't feel heavy or sore, and my stomach is calm. I consider going to the laundry room for a nap, but my emotions are running too hot. My schedule has me in atomic history class, but I know that Game is supposed to be there as well. I'm sure he won't be happy to see me so soon.

I head to the kitchen where Greasy Sae and a few other women are beginning to prepare dinner. I lean against the counter where Sae is chopping carrots. "Hey," she says brightly.

"Hey," I mutter back.

"You hungry?" she inquires.

"No," I say.

"Sick?"

"No." I sigh.

"You will be pretty soon, so you better eat now." Sae winks at me, then turns to get a roll from the pantry.

"Thanks." I smile a little as she hands me the bread. I take a bite and immediately think of Peeta. I exhale deeply.

"You need cheese?" Greasy Sae asks. She has good reason to. Since my cravings kicked in a few weeks ago, I'd made a habit of visiting the kitchen and asking for snacks. Bread and cheese was my usual request.

But the thought of bread and cheese reminds me too much of Peeta bringing over baskets of cheese buns the week that I'd broken my foot and he had cared for me. I think of us lying in bed before the Quell, pressing our lips and then our bodies together. I wish we hadn't had sex. I wish the baby didn't exist. But for completely different reasons now. I don't feel like it's a burden anymore. I just feel so guilty about changing my mind.

I sink down to the floor and sit with my back against the wooden cabinets under the counter. Sae glances over at me and abandons her carrots. "Hey, what's the problem?" she asks, sitting down beside me.

"Peeta," I mutter. "And Gale."

Sae gives a derisive snort. "Men, right? Always the problem."

"Well, no, I just—I'm not sure about the abortion," I say, wondering if my ramblings are making any sense.

"They're letting you?" Sae asks, gasping slightly.

"'Course not," I say. "I just feel like maybe I actually _want_ to keep it. Not just because they're making me." Since I'd started stopping by the kitchen, I'd started spilling my complaints to Sae. She had become a receptive set of ears, always ready to hear my latest rant about emotions, nausea, my mother, and most often, Coin. Before now, I hadn't realized how much I count on Sae to listen to me.

"I knew there'd be some mama in you eventually," Sae says, patting my arm.

"I'm doing it for Peeta," I say to my knees.

"You're doing it for you," she insists, "Peeta is just your reason."

I sigh deeply. "Gale hates me."

"He won't for very long," Sae murmurs, "He loves you too much."

"Wish he wouldn't," I say. "Then maybe he wouldn't be so fucking disgusted by Peeta. And the baby." The tears are coming again.

"Hey," Sae says quietly, gripping my arm, "You make whatever decision you want. With your body, your choice is always the best."

I nod, hastily wiping away tears with my sleeve. "You gonna be okay?" Sae asks. I nod again. "You sure? You feeling sick at all?"

"No," I say, trying not to sob, "I feel good." I let out a shaky breath, knowing that I probably don't look all that good. I realize that I'm still holding the roll. I don't really want it anymore.

Sae seems to realize that as well. "You want something else? Milk? Jerky? Oatmeal?"

"Anything," I say, setting the bitten roll on the counter above my head. Sae disappears to the pantry for a moment and returns with a square of chewy compressed oatmeal and a glass of milk.

"Thank you," I whisper, and I don't mean just for the food.

Sae understands. She pushes stray hairs out of my face and watches me eat for a minute. "Alright," she says. "Finish up and get out of my spot. I got work to do, you know."

I leave the kitchen and start back down the hall, trying to scrape oatmeal out of my teeth with the tip of my tongue. I walk up and down flights of stairs and down obscure hallways, trying to both pass the time and get my mind back in order.

Sae's words have strengthened me a little, given me some assurance that I'm okay. I feel better, in both body and mind. I jog down the hall until I'm touching the wall at the end of the corridor. Then I start in the opposite direction and run the hall again.

Soon I'm sprinting back and forth and back and forth until I'm sweaty and out of breath. It feels amazing to be exercising after all the weeks of Coin denying my requests to train. My breasts don't feel sore and weighed down. My feet are light instead of trudging.

I smooth my hand over the still flat expanse of stomach where I know the baby resides. I haven't made this motion before, I always associated it with love for the fetus, and that was something I'd refused to feel. Until now. "Peeta," I whisper.

I have no idea what time it is, so I head back to my family's apartment. When I open the door, Gale is sitting in the chair across from my mother. He stands when he sees me. I automatically retreat back into the hall.

Gale follows, shutting the door behind him. I know this is going to be a repeat of our earlier argument. Neither one of us lets go easily.

"Why weren't you at dinner?" He begins. "I thought pregnant women needed proper nutrition."

"I ate with Sae," I reply coolly.

Gale can't contain himself. "Katniss, you're fucking seventeen. You don't want this. Whatever you think you feel, you don't want this."

"Why is this your problem, Gale?" I ask quietly. I don't want to cry again. But my head is already beginning to throb with imminent tears. "It's not yours."

"You think I don't fucking know that?" He's beginning to yell.

"There's no way they'll let me have an abortion anyway," I say, "What does it matter if I want to keep it? It'll all end up the same anyway." I will myself not to cry.

"He's already changed you too much! You're not who you used to be, Katniss. I don't like it. This is just too much!"

"Gale, I—" I don't know what to say. He may be right on this one.

The apartment door opens, and my mother steps out. "Katniss," she whispers, her arms open to embrace me, rescue me.

"No," I say, striding down the hall away from both of them. "Goddamnit, not today."

I try to open the first door I come to, but it's locked. I try the next one, and that door opens easily. It's an apartment similar to mine. I see a jacket on the floor beside the desk, so this room probably belongs to someone. I can't care about that at the moment, though, because a wave of dizziness crashes down on me and I have to stumble to the bed before I pass out.

I curl on my side with my head almost touching my knees. The throbbing in my temples has increased, so I shut my eyes and let the tears fall.

A/N: Reviews feed my muse! More to come.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: God bless the Rangers for beating the Washington Capitals. And thank you Flogging Molly for giving me a (somewhat) mainstream outlet for my sick fascination with Irish drinking songs. **

**Sorry I keep messing with Gale. I think I have a grudge against him. **

August 25

10:16 am

There's a knock on the apartment door. My mother rises from the chair beside my bed to open it. "Is she okay?" I hear Gale's low, quiet voice.

"Yes, just hold on." My mother looks over her shoulder at me. "It's Gale," she says.

I nod, silently letting her know that it's okay to let him in. The hinges squeak as the door opens all the way. Gale comes to the side of the bed and sits in the chair that my mother just vacated. He puts a hand comfortingly on my knee.

I'm sitting barefoot and cross-legged on the recently neatly made bed. The quilt is crumpled beneath me now. I clutch a mug of lukewarm ginger tea between my hands.

"Hey," I mumble.

"How are you?" Gale asks.

"Breakfast is gone," I sigh.

"I figured," he says. "This the first day?"

"Yeah," I say. "Sort of. I kind of felt bad yesterday after dinner. Didn't puke, though."

"You holding anything down now?"

"Water. For now," I say. "Trying for tea. How long is this supposed to last?"

"A month? Maybe? I don't know," Gale answers.

"About six weeks," my mother says softly. She is leaning against the wall near the door. I'd almost forgotten about her.

"Shit," I groan.

"It'll get better, Katniss," my mother intones, "And it will all be worth it in the end."

"No it won't," I say. I don't really mean to be rude to my mother. It's just that my usual anti-pregnancy attitude has gotten much worse with the addition of morning sickness.

I take a small sip of tea. The mild ginger flavor seems stronger and more acrid than it's supposed to. The mouthful I'd taken in earlier has already begun to calm my stomach, so I know drinking more will be helpful. I can't get around the flavor, though. "Ugh, this doesn't taste right," I complain. "I want something salty."

"Again? Now?" Gale raises his eyebrows.

"Yeah," I say, rubbing my forehead with the heel of my hand. "I'm hungry. Just sick at the same time." I'm aware of how odd it sounds. Usually the first hint of nausea drives all desire for food out of me. But right now I'm craving a loaf of district 4's seaweed bread and a glass of milk. The thought that it would likely come back up doesn't dissuade me.

"Finish the tea, it will help. Then if it stays down—" my mother starts

"Mom—" I interrupt. I'm about to say 'shut up,' but I think better of it. I know hormones are probably to blame for my horrible mood, but I still feel bad about it. I hand the mug of tea to Gale and rub my eyes with my fists. "Where are you supposed to be?" I ask him.

"Laundry duty," he answers. "Same as you."

"Oh." I've gotten so used to disregarding my schedule. Of course I'm allowed to now that I'm 'indisposed.' But because I'm just so inclined to break the rules, I want to be busy and training all day.

"They're not missing us, though," Gale says. "First priority is that you're okay."

"I'm fine," I murmur. "Just need a minute to get a grip." I've already had about half an hour to get a grip. And I still haven't.

"Okay," Gale says. He offers me the tea. I take back the mug, but I'm still not interested in drinking the liquid. I lean forward with my elbows on my knees. Gale puts a hand on my back.

"Katniss," my mother says. "I need to get back to the hospital."

"Okay," I say, not looking up. I'm relieved that she's leaving. I'll only continue being insolent toward her. But I'm disappointed that we're not closer. Mother and daughter are supposed to bond over a pregnancy, right?

"Mom," I say, suddenly glancing up to catch her attention.

"Yes?" She answers.

"Don't tell Prim. That I'm sick," I demand. "You know it'll make her worried out of her head. She doesn't need that right now."

"But Katniss—" my mother starts.

"It's not like she won't find out later," I say. "She just doesn't need to know right now."

"Well—okay," my mother agrees. "You take care. Come down to the hospital if you need anything."

"Yeah," I say. I take a sip of tea as the door closes behind her. I tilt my head back and drain the mug, then shove it at Gale and get up from the bed.

"Where are you going?" Gale asks.

"Gonna go fold towels. Want to come?"

"You feel well enough?" he asks skeptically.

"Yeah," I say. "It's not like this is going to go away any time soon. Might as well get used to it."

The walk down to the laundry room does me good. I feel better on my feet. When we get to the warm, humid room, five or six people are folding linens at the central table. Another two or three are moving piles of garments between the machines that line the walls.

Gale and I join the folders. Everyone looks at me, then quickly looks away. I should have gotten used to this by now. All of district 13, hell, all of Panem, is eagerly awaiting news about me and the pregnancy. I'm loath to talk to anyone about it. This repulsive blight on my life.

I keep my head down and work, carefully creasing the towels and pillowcases and folding them into perfect squares. I usually can't stand the meticulous repetitiveness of this kind of work, but today I use it as a distraction. I think only of the fabric between my hands.

I'm grateful when it's time for lunch. I'm ready to be away from other people, even if it's only for a couple of minutes as I walk down the hall. Gale and I head toward the dining room. "I'm hungry," I whine. "I could go for some toast with, like, a shit ton of butter."

"Well, keep your fingers crossed. It's not like we get to choose," Gale reminds me.

"Yeah, well. I should get special privileges," I say.

"What do you call it when you go bother Sae in the kitchen? I'd say that's a privilege," Gale teases me.

"That's different," I say. "It can't be a privilege because I'm breaking the rules. And they don't know I do it."

I begin to smell what we're having for lunch as Gale and I near the doors to the dining room. It's strong. Cabbage-y. Gale holds the door open for me. "Thanks," I say. Then I stop as I'm met with a gust of warm air strongly scented with cabbage and garlic. I can't stand it.

I wheel around and dash a few steps down the hall, where I collide with Haymitch on his way to lunch. I try to say 'sorry,' but I just come out with "Mmmm," as I bring a hand up to cover my mouth. I can taste bile and ginger tea.

I burst into the nearest bathroom and vomit into the toilet. The door bangs against the wall behind me and two sets of footsteps echo on the tiled floor. "Sweetheart?" Haymitch asks.

"Katniss," says Gale comfortingly as he kneels down next to me. When the tea is gone, I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and cover my face with my hands. I'm still so nauseous. The stench of cabbage seems to be lingering and festering in my nostrils and throat.

Haymitch slides down against the wall and sits on the floor with us. "You'll be okay," he says.

"Yeah, Catnip. It'll be okay," Gale echoes.

Tears are rising. I let the sobs come, and I bury my face in Gale's chest. He wraps protective arms around me. I moan out the words that I've been longing to scream all day, since I first felt sick after breakfast. "I don't want this!" I wail into Gale's shirt. "I don't fucking want this."

Haymitch rubs my shoulder. "I know, Sweetheart," he intones. "I know."

A/N: Reviews feed my muse! Three more chapters to go, I think.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This one's up quick. I'm a horrible person that doesn't pay attention in class. **

**Remember: backwards**

August 17

8:24am

"No!" I say.

"Yes," demands Coin as she rearranges her papers. "And that's final." She stands up, pushes in her chair, and leaves the room. I run my fingers through my hair, then hold my head in my hands and sigh.

"Katniss, this is for the best," Plutarch says from across the table. "We'll work the propos—"

"Plutarch," I say, "shut up." He does, but I can almost feel the scathing look that I know he's shooting in my direction.

"Well," says Boggs, who is sitting a few seats down from me, "That's it, I guess." He stands and shuffles out of the room. Cressida, Fulvia, and Plutarch follow. Plutarch lingers next to the door, though.

"Katniss," he tries again.

"Fuck you," I say. The door slams shut behind him. I bring my forehead down to the table and let myself relive the conversation that just occurred. Argument would probably be a more accurate term.

This morning's command meeting had been devoted to discussion about the propos that were to be filmed. I would star in them, of course, because I am the mockingjay. I'd protested. "Who says I'm being the Mockingjay?"

"I do," Coin had answered. "The war is as good as lost without you. We'll never get the districts on our side. The Capital wins. End of story."

"What if I don't care?" I'd shot back.

"The Capital wins, Peeta dies," Coin said shortly.

I was stuck there. I let the dialogue continue without disruption. Plutarch introduced me to Cressida, the film director, and they explained about the sound stage and the fake combat and not harming the baby.

"And what does that accomplish?" Gale interrupted.

"Winning over the districts with messages of strength and hope—" Cressida began to spit out the carefully formulated answer.

"Yeah, but what does that get done?" he insisted. "Fake combat? Why the hell would you do that? Waste resources and get nothing done. There are plenty of real battles going on, and you're ignoring them."

I immediately sided with Gale. "I want to fight," I said.

"You're pregnant," Plutarch said indignantly.

"And what kind of help am I sitting around feeling fat and craving salt?" I shot back.

"We cannot endanger the fetus," Coin pronounced in her commanding voice.

"So get rid of the goddamn fetus!" I yelled. "Let me have the abortion!"

Coin acted as if she hadn't heard me. "Katniss, you will report to the sound stage for filming."

"Let me have the abortion!" I said again.

"You will report for filming at 0900 hours," Coin continued in a measured voice.

Then I'd refused. And she insisted. And I've created a mess that will never be cleaned up.

Gale pats my shoulder. I sit up and face him. "That went great, don't you think?" I ask sarcastically.

"Yeah," he says. He's not smiling. "I can't fucking believe this." He pushes the hair off his forehead. "It's so fucked up. You're right. You've been right since the beginning," Gale fumes.

The words burst out of me before I can get a grip on them. "Gale, do you want me to have the abortion because it's Peeta's?"

He stares at me. "What? I—no, Katniss. No. I don't," he says. I can practically see the 'why?' on his lips, but he doesn't ask. I'm grateful for that. I just hope that he's telling me the truth.

"Okay," I say. I stand up and head for the door.

"Want your shoes?" Gale asks, gesturing at the boots under the table where I'd kicked them off earlier.

"Not really," I say. Gale shrugs and follows me out.

"What is it about the shoes?" he asks. He's smiling a little now.

"They don't fit right. Whoever had them last broke them in all wrong."

"Might be you," Gale says. "Being pregnant makes your feet weird. My mom went barefoot for months before she had Posy."

"Yeah, well," I say. "I'll add it to the list of things that I hate about my life right now."

We reach an elevator. Gale pauses, but I continue on. "Where are you going?" he asks. "I'm not sure it's such a good idea to blow off orders from Coin today."

"Kitchen," I say. "I need cheese toast."

Gale rolls his eyes, but he good naturedly escorts me to the kitchen before departing for training. I want to go with him, and I say so to Greasy Sae as she hands me a hot, oily slice of bread. I mouth off about Coin between bites of the salty, fatty snack.

By the time I'm finished, I have barely a minute to get down to the sound stage. I jog to the elevator, feeling my breasts bounce and ache. Yet another thing to hate about the pregnancy.

When the elevator doors open at the sound stage level, I see Plutarch and Cressida waiting. I'd hoped to see Haymitch as well; he would be more likely to side with me. But I guess he doesn't want to get involved in this battle any more than he already has.

Plutarch is still seething. He doesn't speak to me as I approach him. Cressida starts yammering about the propos, the settings, the cameras, the lines. I'm not listening. I would rather be anywhere else but here.

Cressida turns me over to my preps, who immediately begin to squeal. I try not to listen to this either, but I can't help hearing the word "baby" repeated several times.

My beautification seems longer and more painful than usual. I feel disgusting in my body. I want to pull a robe tightly around myself and turn away, denying the preps access to my skin. But I grit my teeth and force myself to stay still as my mind wanders.

Is aborting the baby the best option. Yes, of course it is. I fight. I kill Snow. I get Peeta back.

Would killing the baby hurt Peeta? I don't know. And I won't know unless I get Peeta back. And I want him back. I want him a hell of a lot more than I want this barely formed burden of a child growing inside me.

I suddenly feel like crying. I blink desperately to keep the tears from falling.

"Katniss," Flavius complains. He's holding a mascara wand close to my face.

"Sorry," I mutter. I look at my reflection in the mirror in front of me. I see the perfectly painted Mockingjay. Not me. I sigh.

I don't want to do this. I don't want have any part in this plan. But I still have to hope that it works.

**A/N: Sorry this is so short. It felt a lot longer when I was writing it. Probably because of all the dialogue. **

**Reviews feed my muse. More to come.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Philosophy paper, you can just go suck it…**

August 8

3:48am

The phantom lights and voices are slowly retreating. The backs of my eyelids glow red as if light is shining on me. I open my eyes to the soft illumination of the lamp on the bedside table. The rails on the sides of the hospital bed cast tall shadows on the wall.

For a moment, I'm disoriented. I defensively pull the blankets up to my chin.

"When were you going to tell me?" I jump at the sound of his voice. Haymitch is sitting in the chair at the foot of the bed.

I push myself up into a halfway seated position. "Tell you what?" I ask, my voice rough and sleepy.

Haymitch leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. "About the baby," he says. "I thought it was a joke."

It takes me a moment to remember the stupid statement Peeta had dropped during his interview before the Quell. "It was," I say. "It is."

"Fuck it, Katniss," Haymitch snaps, dropping his chin into his hands. "Don't try to hide it now."

"What? Hide—what?" I ask indignantly. "I'm not—"

"Do you seriously not know?" Haymitch ask with an air of disbelief. He sits back and laughs humorously. "You're knocked up, sweetheart."

"I'm not," I say again.

"Yeah, 'cause you're a virgin, right?" Haymitch rolls his eyes. I'm not, but it seems somehow irrelevant. "You had a blood test yesterday," he continues.

"Yeah," I nod. "For antibodies or something. To make s going to sure I'm not going to breed diseases when I move out of this shithole." I gesture at the hospital room around me.

"Yeah, but that doesn't matter," Haymitch answers quickly. "The last test you had said your hormones were whacked, and this one just confirmed that you're—" He gestures at my stomach.

"I'm not!" I yell. How the hell could I be pregnant?

I know perfectly well how. When a man and a woman have unprotected sex, there is a possibility of pregnancy. But I don't think of Peeta as a man, and I'm definitely not a woman. But we'd still… And now I'm…

I put my hands over my face so I don't have to look at Haymitch. "Fuck," I sigh.

"Yeah," says Haymitch. "I thought you were smart enough to use this mess to your advantage and stay out of it for real. Why the hell did you even do it?"

"I don't know," I mutter. "We both thought we'd be dead in a week." I'm beginning to feel angry.

"So it is his," Haymitch says.

"Yeah, who else's would it be?" I shoot back.

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" he asks heatedly "All I know is that it's not mine."

"You're disgusting," I spit.

"No more than you are, Sweetheart," Haymitch says, matching my tone.

I slump back against my pillows and let out my breath. I look down at my abdomen, which bears no indicators that there is a life growing inside of it. I'm pregnant. What did I do? What does this mean for me? "Who all knows?" I ask

"Dr. what's-her-name. Coin. Plutarch," answers Haymitch.

"Right," I say. "And what are they going to do?"

"Protect you. Hole you up somewhere and fatten you up so you can crank out a perfect little victor baby. Take films of you and broadcast them on national television. I don't know," Haymitch says, "But they're defiantly going to use this to their advantage."

Something in my mind won't click. "They want me to be pregnant? I mean, stay pregnant?" I ask, slightly confused.

"Uh, yeah. Why wouldn't they?" he replies. "You don't want—"

"Yeah, I do," I say, scrambling to sit up. "Just get rid of it. I don't want to do this right now. I'm too young. I'm too…I don't know. Involved," I say. "I want to get my head back on straight and go take down the Capital."

"But you can't." Haymitch insists.

"I'm not stupid, Haymitch!" I bellow. "I know what an abortion is. I know they can do it. Hell, people do it with coat hangers in back alleys in the seam. All this fancy medical equipment, they can do it here."

"You can't!" He says again. "They won't do it. If there's one thing they take more seriously here than the war, it's fertility. You know about the pox. You know how low the birth rate is here. With a baby made from two healthy kids, they'd never do it."

"And what about what I want?" I assert. "Does that even matter."

Haymitch gives a sinister chuckle. "Of course not, Sweetheart. It'll be the child of the mockingjay, the child of two victors. You gave up your free will the minute you walked out of that arena the first time." He shakes his head. "And the entire country already thinks you're pregnant anyway. It really doesn't hurt that you actually are."

"Hey, that was a mistake," I say. "What if I wasn't pregnant? They'd tell the country something. That I miscarried or something like that. Why can't we just do that?"

"Sweetheart," Haymitch says. He's starting to get exasperated with me. "They just won't."

"But—Goddamnit!" I let out. I drag my knees up to my chest under the blankets and slam my hands onto the bed at my sides. "Fuck."

I shut my eyes and seethe for a minute. Then Haymitch speaks up again. "So, how so you want to tell them?"

"What?" I ask, squinting at him. "Tell who?" It's amazing how one piece of information can completely overwhelm my mind.

"God, Sweetheart," Haymitch says, "I don't know. Your mom, your sister, Finnick, Gale…"

"I don't want to think about it," I mumble, pulling my fingers through my tangled hair.

"Well, you've got to do it anyway," he says. "Now that your tests are confirmed, there's no getting around it. You tell who you want how you want, or someone else is going to do it for you."

"Yeah," I sigh. Haymitch stands to leave. "Wait!" I say.

"What do you want?"

"A drink," I say. "Anything to scrub my brain."

"No can do, Sweetheart," Haymitch chuckles. "My neck would be on the line if the baby comes out warped." He continues toward the door.

"Don't leave, then," I whisper.

Haymitch sighs. "Okay. Fine." He clicks off the lamp before returning to the chair. "I'm not looking at you, though."

"Fine," I say back.

I lean against the pillows and stare at the ceiling, listening to Haymitch breathe from across the room. I'm pregnant. I'll never be able to fight. I'll never be able to get Peeta back from the Capital. My life will never be what I want.

What I want. I don't want this. How far along could I be? Three weeks? Maybe? The fetus would be smaller than my thumbnail. Aborting it wouldn't really be killing it, would it? It would be the best option. For me and the baby. I would never love it. It'll just end up being another thing Coin can use to control me.

I must have drifted off eventually, because I open my eyes to a brightly lit room and my mother negotiating a tray of breakfast onto my lap. Haymitch is still in the chair at the foot of the bed, rubbing his eyes.

My mother glances at him. "You spent the night together?"

"No!" I immediately snap, even though it's technically true.

Haymitch yawns. "I think I'll go," he says and makes for the door. He exits just as Prim enters with an armful of clean sheets.

"Fuck," I say under my breath.

"Katniss!" my mother admonishes.

"Sorry," I say. "I just—I have—something I need to tell you." I look at Prim. She's so young. Chaste. But not naïve. And not stupid.

She sets the bedding on Haymitch's chair and comes to stand beside our mother. They both look expectantly at me. "I…" I start. I can't tell them. I can't. "I'm having Peeta's…" _Baby_. I can't force out the word. I change tact again. "I'm pregnant."

My mother brings a hand up to cover her mouth. Her eyes are wide and wet. Prim is grinning, though. She claps her hands together, then grasps my arm. "A baby!" Prim squeals.

She's actually excited. I feel nauseous. "Yeah," I force out.

"A baby," my mother whispers. She looks like she either wants to laugh or start yelling at me. I know how she feels. I've made the mistake no one wants their daughter to make. But for whatever reason, women get so happy at the thought of a baby entering the world. Just not me.

"Yeah," I whisper. I don't tell them that I don't want to keep it. Neither one would understand. My mother and Prim wrap me in their arms, kiss me, and stroke my hair.

When they let me go, I find that I can't meet their eyes. "What do you need, Katniss?" my mother asks.

"Can you get Gale?" I ask in a small voice. My eyes are flooding with tears. She nods and leaves the room.

Prim stays and tries to get me to eat breakfast. "No, stop!" I say as she starts to pour maple syrup on my oatmeal. "I need butter or cheese or something." She laughs at me, then finally agrees to try to fulfill my request.

Prim's barely left when Gale appears in my doorway. "Gale," I whisper. He sits on the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry," I say. Tears are pouring down my face. "I don't want it." He folds me into his strong arms so I can cry into his shoulder. "I'm just so sorry."

**A/N: Reviews feed my muse! And I'd buy you all Starbucks if I could. **

**I'll try to have the final chapter up by Monday.**


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Capitals won (Damnit!). Had cheddar flavored Pringles and chocolate milk for dinner. Feel sick. Taking the computer to bed. Writing makes me feel better.

This one goes back to Catching Fire, before the Quell. You can assume that the Quell took place as described in the book.

Alicialoo946, here's your lemon. Enjoy. **(WARNING: Sexy content ahead)**

And sorry this took forever to post! I've been having trouble signing into my account.

July 19

11:56pm

I trail behind Peeta, walking down the hall toward his room. My boots click loudly on the wooden floor of the penthouse. I feel like I'm being watched from every angle, and I desperately want privacy. But I don't want to be alone.

Finnick O'dair's antics at the tribute parade coupled with Johanna in the elevator and the sight of Darius as an avox make me feel tainted. Uncomfortable. Shivering with revulsion inside my own skin. The hallway is dark; only a dim glow seeps from the sitting room behind us. Peeta and I are still wearing our glowing suits, but the battery packs are quickly fading. The orange coal of my body flickers out seconds before Peeta's. We're both done illuminating when we slip through the door to the bedroom.

I sit down on the bed and let out a huge sigh. I'm ready to cry, but I don't want to if I can help it. I unzip the top of my suit and slip my arms out of the tight fabric, revealing my bra and pale, clammy skin. I'm sweaty and sticky from being inside the thick, non-breathable fabric for so long. My current state of mind probably has something to do with it too.

Peeta sits down beside me. He places a hand comfortingly on my knee. "This is fucked up," I say.

"Yeah," Peeta replies. I rub my hands over my face. I'm trembling slightly. I feel sort of sick. I take a few deep breaths. "You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah. I don't know," I mumble. "I just feel…bad." I kick off my boots and shove myself to my feet. "I need a shower."

"Uh, yeah, sure," Peeta says, gesturing toward the bathroom door. What am I doing? This is Peeta's room. Not mine. Why am I acting so comfortable here? Well, probably because I feel like I'm going to scream or puke if I don't get under cold water in the next ten seconds.

Once I'm alone in the bathroom, I strip and start the shower. I don't want scents or bubbles or any of the Capital's fancy additions. I just want cool, pure water to wash away the evening. I comb my fingers through my tangled hair and use my fingers to scrub makeup off my face. I take extra time massaging my temples, feeling the pressure radiate down my cheekbones into my jaw. I let myself relax enough to allow the tears to fall, but they're gone. My body won't let me cry.

I end up standing with my forehead pressed against the tile wall. There's a knock at the bathroom door. I start and quickly shut the water off. I poke my head around the edge of the shower curtain. "Yeah?" I say.

Peeta opens the door. "Uh," he says, "Here's a shirt." He proffers a folded bundle of white jersey fabric. "I don't have anything for you…"

"It's okay," I say. "Just leave it, I'll be out in a minute." He's wearing undershorts. And nothing else. And I don't know if it's exhaustion or lust or pure stupidity, but I can't take my eyes off him. I jerk to awareness and raise my eyes from his crotch to his face just before he shuts the door.

"God, shit, you're…" I chastise myself, folding my hands on top of my head and pressing down hard. "Shit." I towel off and toss on the T-shirt. It's slightly see-through and falls just to the tops of my thighs. I don't have any underwear, so I wrap a towel around my waist. I glance in the mirror at my hard nipples and tangled hair. I sigh and hope that the bedroom is dark.

It is. There is one small light embedded in the wall near the door, and by its light I can see Peeta sitting on the bed on top of the covers. He has a shirt on with his shorts now. I crawl up next to him, carefully negotiating my towel around my hips. "Hey," Peeta whispers.

"Hey," I say. I know he saw me looking. But he won't say anything. He's too kind. Protective of me. Even from himself.

"You feel better?" he asks.

I take a quick inventory. My head has developed a slight throb, and I'm still trembly. All the makeup and sweat are washed away, though, so I feel a good bit cleaner. In body, anyway. My mind is another matter entirely. "A little," I reply.

A shiver runs through my body, raising gooseflesh on my arms. My wet hair isn't helping. "Come'ere," Peeta says, pulling me closer so my head rests on his chest. He pulls down the blankets and snuggles us beneath the covers.

"Thanks," I whisper. He is warm. I lay my cheek, arms, and chest against him. Peeta wraps his arms around me.

"No nightmares tonight," he says.

"I hope not," I reply. Peeta bends his head toward mine and softly kisses my forehead.

"Mmm," I say, enjoying the feel of his lips on my skin. He gently uses a hand to raise my chin. Peeta kisses my lips. I kiss back. The slow rhythm makes me feel safe and warm. His tongue slips between my lips. Peeta tastes the way he looks—soft, light, but solid. Slightly sweet.

We explore each other's mouths for a while, and then he pulls back sucking my lower lip. He's hard against my leg. This isn't the first time it's happened. We've woken up in the same bed quite a few times before. But this is the first time I've acknowledged it. I reach out tentatively and stroke him through his shorts. Peeta sighs into my mouth. I realize that my towel is flat beneath me.

Peeta's shirt is the first thing to come off. He pulls it over his head, then hikes me on top of him. Our bodies press together as we continue to kiss. I feel him, still swathed in fabric, thrusting between my legs. And I _want_.

I want pleasure and pain and every experience left in the world before I lose it all. I begin to pull up my shirt, and Peeta's hands are immediately there to help. His fingers find my breasts, gently exploring my skin. I'm sensitive and tingling, and shivers run down my spine as he fingers my nipple.

I'm wet and anxious as I get my fingers under the waistband of his pants. I get them down to his knees before he has to get them the rest of the way off himself. I'm throbbing, waiting eagerly for that first contact…

He's surprisingly gentle and warm. It takes fingers and adjustments, but soon Peeta is on top of me, thrusting and kissing. It's awkward at first, and achy, but the pleasure comes hard and fast. I have my arms wrapped around Peeta's shoulders, and he has one hand in my breasts and the other in my hair. Our lips and tongues still find each other's.

And then I'm moaning and seeing stars. One, two, three more thrusts and the warms gush inside of me and the hot breath on my face tells me that he has too. We separate, but stay intertwined. I feel sweaty, damp, and sticky, but wonderful.

"Katniss," Peeta whispers into my cheek. "I love you."

"I love you," I echo. At least I'll die loving you.

-END-

A/N: So that's the end of Blight. I hope you enjoyed it. I'm going to take a little time off before I start my next project, but will be back with something new before too long. I've a few ideas, not all of them Hunger Games, but I'll get it sorted into something.

Reviews feed my muse! Coffee and Yorkie bars to all!


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